Walking on Sea Glass

by Julie Carobini

  “Says the man who’s about to ask me to sign a stack of legalese.”

  “Ah, but this is a very important stack, one that, if you sign, will bring you lots and lots of money.”

  Beau groaned. “Well, considering I’ve got a real estate agent breathing down my neck with her incessant checklists, I suppose I can take a break from this right now. Have a seat.”

  Taylor grinned. “I don’t think so. Come on.” He waved the thick envelope he was carrying toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Really, Tay, I can’t. Too much to do.”

  Taylor kept that grin on his face. “Come on.”

  The look on his friend’s face told Beau he wasn’t about to waver. Beau released a deep breath. Fine. The guy wanted coffee, and Beau needed money to close the house deal. He stood and grabbed his keys.

  Taylor grabbed the ring of keys from Beau’s hand and tossed it back onto his desk. “You won’t be needing these”—he glanced back at the messy desk—“although I might have to help you find them later. Let’s go. I want to show you something.”

  Outside, Beau walked toward Taylor’s blue SUV when he realized that his friend had veered elsewhere in the parking lot.

  Taylor waved him over to a silver Porsche. He dangled a key in front of him. “Wanna drive it?”

  Beau frowned. He turned back toward the SUV, noticing now that it was lighter in color than he remembered. The paint was faded in places, too. He took in the sports car again. It shined.

  Taylor still held out that key. “Let’s go.”

  Beau started her up, relaxing as the Porsche roared to life. Within seconds, he thought he heard it purr. “Who in the world loaned you this?”

  Taylor laughed, a full-force, head-back kind of laugh. “I bought it, man. It’s a 2005 Carrera.”

  “Does Ginny know about this?”

  Taylor let out a gasp of incredulity. “You think I’m whipped or something? I can buy any car I want.”

  “Right.”

  “As long as she gets something shiny, too, of course.”

  Beau nodded, satisfied. “Now we’re getting somewhere. How shiny did you have to go to get this baby?”

  Taylor pursed his lips. He let out a sigh. “Just opened escrow on a hillside house.”

  Now it was Beau’s turn to throw back his head and laugh like he hadn’t laughed all week.

  “Fine, fine,” Taylor said. “Take this baby out on the freeway and you’ll see that she’s worth every penny.”

  Beau wagged his head. “She’d better be.”

  Getting to the coffee house by way of the freeway was about as out of the way as one could get. Neither of them cared, though, especially Beau. The sheer thrill of power rising in a breath of time, not to mention the risk of a massive speeding ticket, pulled him out of the funk that had been penetrating his mind and lonely days for the past week. He pulled into a compact space, reluctant to kill the engine.

  “Woo-hoo!” Taylor said. “That was some test drive!”

  The expression on Taylor’s face had knocked ten years off his age, and Beau hoped it would do the same thing for him. Still smiling, he exited the car and handed Taylor the keys. “I don’t know how you’ll be able to control yourself. Not exactly the kind of car you can take to your daughter’s ballet practices.”

  “Why not? I can fit a kid’s car seat in it.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  Inside, they ordered their coffees—an espresso for Beau, a cold blended concoction for Taylor—and found a table outside. Taylor slapped the packet of papers onto the table and pulled out a pen. “Okay, some of these will have to be notarized, but I figured I could go over the bulk of them now with you.” He looked up. “Who am I kidding? I just wanted to give you a go with my car.”

  Beau let out a short laugh. “Why’s that?”

  “Because you, my friend, have been miserable lately.” Taylor was pointing the pen at him now. “It’s a horrible thing to witness. Any change on the romance front?”

  “I haven’t talked to Liddy all week.”

  Taylor nodded once. “I get it—you don’t want to know if there’s something seriously wrong.”

  Beau shook his head quickly. “No, no, that’s not it at all. I hope she does call me … if she receives some bad news.”

  “Okay, so if you’re ready to accept that, why haven’t you called her?”

  “She called me immature.”

  “Immature? As in too young or …? I don’t get it. Dude, you’re older than her.”

  “She was angry about the Wendy thing when she said it. Can’t blame her, though it stung.”

  “A little sting can be a good thing.”

  Beau blew out a long, low breath. “You’re right. But I don’t know … losing Anne changed me. I’m less foolhardy than I once was.”

  “The way you flipped the gears out there on the highway, I am not inclined to agree.”

  Beau gave Tyler a reluctant smile. “Maybe I have been afraid. Anne’s illness took me—all of us—by surprise. I never really got used to the idea, even up to the end. Frankly, I’d prefer not to ever go through anything like that again.”

  “And I’d prefer to spend all day on a surfboard.”

  Beau rolled his eyes. “You haven’t surfed a day in your life.”

  “It was an expression, dude. What I’m saying is we prefer all kinds of things, but there’s not one thing in this life we can control. Nothing.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’m going to ask you something, but you’ll have to promise you won’t punch me in the face if I do.”

  “I haven’t punched another guy since high school. He did have it coming, though.”

  Taylor sighed.

  Beau sat back, waiting. “Well, go on now. Ask away.”

  * * *

  Taylor dropped off Beau at his office, but instead of heading back inside to his paper-filled desk, he pivoted around and set out for a walk. He couldn’t get Taylor’s question out of his mind, and he certainly didn’t want to sit in his office, obsessing over it while avoiding his assistant’s inquisitive mind. There were definite advantages to employing someone as fiercely loyal and skilled as Jill, but when it came to his love life, her presence and “advice” often caused him unnecessary bouts of stuttering and explanation—much like facing his mother’s unyielding questions did when he was young.

  So he chose the most appropriate maneuver: avoidance. His dress shoes clipped along on the sidewalk at a fast pace, the steady rhythm providing a gentle background to his thoughts. He admitted to himself that he was no stranger to avoiding the hard things. Not in work, per se, but in relationships, mostly.

  Anne had wanted to get married long before he found himself ready to propose. He loved her; that wasn’t the issue. But he wanted to make sure that he had made sufficient money and headway in his work before making a commitment to her.

  At least that’s what he’d always said.

  Truthfully, he was never really sure he could handle the heady weight of supporting another person, not only financially, but emotionally. He’d had the best example of a marital relationship in his parents, but that didn’t stop him from obsessing over the right time, the right place, the right … everything. He sighed, remembering the agitation in his gut the night before he proposed in that park with the old trees that she always liked to walk through on Sunday afternoons. The closer he moved to that pivotal moment, the more his desire to be Anne’s husband grew, yet at the same time a monster of doubt surged inside of him, taunting his confidence. His biggest foe was the worry that somehow he would let Anne down.

  The memory of that day and those thoughts sliced through him. He swallowed them back, his throat slack with emotion long shed. Before the end, she had caressed his face and thanked him for being a husband who didn’t bail when her illness began its daily ravage. “I will love you through eternity,” she had said, her voice remarkably stable, considering.

  He stopped
at the edge of a park two blocks from his office, his chest heaving from gulping heavy doses of oxygen. He leaned forcefully against a wrought-iron railing, and found himself passively watching a boy and his dog. Leaves glittered in the sun, a blessed wind flowing through them, through him. He glanced around. This idyllic spot wasn’t much different from the park where he had proposed to Anne all those years ago. He rubbed his face, aware of the shadow forming on his skin. It had been good, his marriage. And right.

  A man’s voice interrupted his thoughts. The little boy was kicking a ball two times his size toward a gargantuan, tail-wagging dog. The older man, perhaps the boy’s father, urged him on from a distance. The little boy kicked the soccer ball again, this time with enough force to send the massive dog running, ears back, tail flying. As Beau watched a perfectly normal event on an equally average day, he realized with startling clarity that despite all the pain, all the discouragement and shifted dreams, he knew, and had always known the answer to Taylor’s question: He did not, for one moment, regret his marriage to Anne.

  When the dog reached the ball, he somehow managed to sink his teeth in it and lift it high. The dog turned then and galloped, full force toward the young boy, that ball like an appendage to its snout. Beau groaned, certain the boy was about to be flattened.

  Instead, the little guy ran with chubby arms open toward the barreling animal as if unafraid—and unaware—of impending danger. The dog stopped abruptly, dropped the ball at the feet of the child who was half his size, and began slurping the young boy’s face. Giggles bubbled on the breeze. Beau could hear the boy’s father laughing heartily.

  Beau laughed, too, noting the steady, forceful pumping of his own heart, telling him he was much alive.

  So was Liddy.

  And … he missed her.

  Maybe … maybe it was time for him to face his demons. Head on. Am I going to keep living in fear? Or do I have the guts to follow the path laid out before me?

  He pondered this while watching the man scoop up his son, slip a leash around the dog, and kick the ball toward the parking lot.

  Chapter 24

  Liddy hurried past the line of cars at the valet station, weaving past writers who had formed small goodbye parties near the hotel’s entrance. It was the last day of the week-long event, and though the creative storytellers who had filled the inn had provided plenty of entertainment, Liddy wasn’t unhappy to see them go. Her files were in disarray, as were the concierge desk brochures, not to mention the supplies that had been depleted. She and the rest of the concierges had their work cut out for them if they were going to turn things over in time for the travel press trip arriving in a few days.

  As soon as she hit the lobby, she paused. There was a stiffness to the staff, stern expressions replacing the usually jovial mood of the place. She, too, had been wrestling with her emotions lately, so she had welcomed the workday ahead. Staying home left too much quiet to ruminate, and Liddy had begun to rely on her friends in the hospitality industry to give her a daily dose of laughs.

  “Why is everyone so glum around here?” she asked Trace while sliding her purse into a drawer.

  “I don’t really know. Maybe something in the water?”

  Liddy glanced around. Everyone seemed to be all business today. She shrugged and picked up the phone after it began to ring.

  “Concierge desk. This is Liddy.”

  “It’s me,” Meg said. “Listen, have you seen Jackson yet this morning?”

  “I have not. But I just got here.” She turned away from the phone. “Trace, have you seen Mr. Riley?”

  Trace said nothing, but shook her head while doodling directions on a notepad for a couple of hat-wearing women standing in front of her.

  Liddy turned back to the phone. “Neither has Trace. Would you like me to give you a call when he arrives?”

  “No, no. It’s okay.” Meg’s voice fell to a whisper. “It’s going to have to be.”

  “Sounds like something’s up.”

  “You can say that again … you could do something for me, though. If a camera crew shows up, would you call me first?”

  “Well, sure …”

  “And stall them, okay?”

  Liddy’s forehead tensed. “Of course, but—”

  “Gotta run!” Meg clicked off.

  “What was that all about?” Trace asked after her guests walked away.

  Before she could answer, Pepper Riley marched into the hotel, her long, white-blonde hair dusting the satiny fabric of her all-black pantsuit. Her creamy, line-less skin—the kind that can’t move until the chemical wears off—stood out among the flushed and suntanned faces of both tourists and staff milling about the lobby. Guests unaware of Pepper’s connection to the hotel likely wondered at their luck at happening upon someone famous—someone they could not exactly name.

  “Oh, brother. Why is she dressed like a skunk?” Trace asked, before turning away to pick up the phone.

  Liddy hid a laugh, thankful for a Trace-ism to lighten the mood—not to mention the ability to offer a wholly different perspective.

  Pepper strode up to the desk, her eyes zeroing in on Liddy. She put out her hand, her nails manicured into sharp red points. “We haven’t met,” she said. “I’m Pepper Riley, co-owner of the hotel.”

  Liddy shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Riley,” she said.

  “I am expecting a Mr. Nethering and guests to arrive sometime this morning,” she said, her gaze moving about the lobby now.

  Liddy nodded and slid into her seat. “Mr. Nethering … allow me to pull up his reservation.”

  “Mr. Nethering will not be staying at the resort; however, he will approach you and ask for directions to Chef’s office.” She leaned forward, her eyes impressively round and searing despite her frozen forehead. “You must not give him those directions. Instead, send him and his guests to me.”

  Though Liddy kept a poker face, a sensation like peach fuzz rose on the back of her neck. “I will see that I do,” she said.

  Pepper smiled, her lips so full that their edges had disappeared. “Excellent.” She turned and strode across the lobby and down the hall.

  Thankfully, as the number of departing guests continued to swell around the concierge desk, where she’d been left alone due to Trace’s lunch hour, Liddy didn’t have the time to focus on the resort owner’s request. She had just said goodbye to a darling couple who wrote mysteries together, when her stomach grumbled, alerting her that it was nearly time for her own lunch. She sat for a moment, trying to decide between a walk to the marina where she could grab a smoothie or something more decadent like a burger from the restaurant.

  A sudden fluster at the bell desk broke her from her musings, and she glanced up. Jackson had arrived, his expression more surly than she’d ever seen.

  Quickly, Liddy dropped her gaze to her computer screen, hoping to avoid any kind of interaction with him. Her childhood kitten had often tried something similar—looking away in order to not be noticed—but it had never worked. Hopefully, unlike his sister, Jackson had no assignment for her.

  “Liddy,” Jackson said, suddenly appearing deskside. “I’d like to speak with you.”

  She stopped typing and looked up. “Certainly. How may I help you?”

  “Before I forget—thank you for meeting with Ms. Wilkes when I couldn’t be here.”

  “My pleasure.” She hoped that didn’t sound like a lie. She still hadn’t decided what to believe about the personal things Wendy had said to her.

  “Now,” he continued, “it’s my understanding that you have crossed the aisle, so to speak, and that you have taken it upon yourself to learn our reservation system.”

  She stared at him, speechless. Was he about to chastise her in front of the staff and guests? To tell her not to be so nosy? To keep her eyes out of other people’s business? At some point she realized she was holding her breath and began to slowly let it out.

  “I’m impressed,” he finally said. “And I thi
nk it would be wise for us to sit down next week with HR to discuss new ways for you to integrate your knowledge about our systems.”

  She smiled. “Yes. Yes, I would be happy to do that.”

  He gave her a perfunctory nod, but she sensed the start of a smile as well. “I’ll ask my secretary to set something up before I leave town for the rest of the month.”

  He was about to turn away, when, as if in slow motion, a group of five people dressed in black appeared in the lobby, sunlight highlighting their artful hairstyles. The entry doors slid closed behind the two women and three men, drawing attention to their sunglass-adorned faces, and the dolly of equipment being pulled behind them. There was something … familiar about them.

  Their leader, tall and slender enough to tuck in his pants without causing his shirt buttons to become taut, approached the concierge desk. He knew he was beautiful, and Liddy sensed that he had never known the backside of a camera. “I’m here to see the chef.”

  Oh, no … the camera crew Meg wanted me to stall.

  Liddy pulled her attention from Jackson, hoping the VP would continue on his merry way. “Allow me to help you. May I have your name?”

  “Nethering.”

  Liddy’s heart stuck in her throat. Meg had asked to greet them first … but Pepper wants them directed to her.

  The man’s smile was white, reminding her of French nail tips. He spoke again. “If you will direct me to Chef Franco’s office, I have a special surprise for him.”

  Liddy took slow breaths in an attempt to keep calm. She noticed, but did not acknowledge, that Jackson had barely moved away from her. “Yes, of course.” She had to stall. “Perhaps I can call him for you.” She picked up the phone, intending to call Meg. What she would say to her when she answered, well, she hadn’t figured that out yet.

  But the man put his hand on hers. “No, please.” He flashed those teeth. “It’s a surprise.”

  Jackson pivoted. “Perhaps I can help.” He thrust his hand out. “Jackson Riley, VP of the resort.”

  The man’s smile faltered somewhat. Liddy removed her hand from the phone and as stealthily as possible reached for her cell phone and texted “911!” to Meg.